


There  Aren't Miracles for Most Things, But This One is Enough

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, old lady neighbours, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski through the eyes of the great-grandmother on the other side of the worn-down picket fence.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>She pulled his hand into hers. "I know there aren't miracles for many things. But if you can pretend there is, just for one moment, that's long enough to give you courage to do what you need. When the realization hits that there's not, at least you've done all you can."</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Stiles leaned onto her shoulder. "I believed in the miracles they told me about my mom. That she could be saved."</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>"They weren't talking about the right ones then, son." </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	There  Aren't Miracles for Most Things, But This One is Enough

Mrs. Henderson had been living next to the Stilinski home since before it _was_ the Stilinski home. She remembered watching the new Sheriff and his wife, Melanie move their things into the house and forcing her teenage grandson to help with the larger furniture. Somewhere between that day and three months later when the baby was born, the house become a home. She had strong memories the young boy running outside with his dad chasing him and giving raspberries on his belly. She fondly recalled when Melanie would carry out a blanket with three-year-old Stiles (for that's what everyone called him and no one on the street could remember his real Christian name) and a thick book to lay in the grass and cloud-watch. Sometimes Mrs. Henderson would invite them over to the porch swing where the women would sit happily drinking iced tea and Stiles would lay down on the big labrador retriever. 

In the winter months of Stiles's ninth year, Melanie fell ill. The cancer had come on quickly and violently and though Stiles would come over for hot cocoa and tell her how well Melanie was doing, the neighborhood knew she had less than a year left. As far as Mrs. Henderson could tell, the family made the most of their time and when the end finally came, mid-July, the boys stayed strong. It wasn't until Stiles's school started up again that Mrs. Henderson would have to babysit him longer into the night because 'Papa' was out drinking. He'd come home when Stiles asleep and Mrs. Henderson would give him a scolding look and point upstairs. The sheriff would climb up and tiptoe down the hall to his son's room, drop a kiss on his head, and tuck himself into his own cold bed. 

Several years later and Stiles was sixteen, the family still tight as ever, when Mrs. Henderson's middle grand-daughter was killed in a car accident right outside her house. She remembers holding her five-year old cried-self-to-sleep great-grandkid on the same old porch swing watching the EMS cart the body away and the police set up a small perimeter. She didn't know what they could be investigating. She'd seen it with her own eyes, definitely an accident. But there had been strange deaths recently and every incident now had to be made a big unnecessary deal. She said as much to the Sheriff when he came up to her.

"Now, Miss Kathleen, you know we have to do this."

She raised her eyebrow at him. "You most certainly do not. That red SUV was speeding and you know it. Sli-slid right into my Claire." She took a moment, sniffling, before looking back at him. "And you call me Mrs. Henderson, boy. I'm older than most of your ancestors." 

Stilinski cracked a small, sad smile. "Of course, Mrs. Henderson. But maybe it would be best to give us all the details you can tomorrow at the station. We don't have to do your statement now as you're obviously jarred."

Mrs. Henderson was pretty sure that was against police procedure but didn't say anything to object. The sheriff wanted out of here as much as she did, probably. He'd been texting on his crummy old cell phone earlier and she knew the only person who would text him was Stiles. She'd gotten an occasional 'Have a good day? :)' message from the young boy as well.

But Stilinski had been scowling at his phone, rubbing the skin between his thumb and pointer finger. Mrs. Henderson had put enough stressed Stilinskis to sleep to know that meant he was nervous. "What? Are there laws against calling your son at a crime scene?" she said when his phone gave another _ding._

He smiled gratefully and turned to get up, pulling out his phone, then stopped. "Mrs. Henderson... I know how hard this can be. If there's anything we can do, please let me or Stiles know, alright?"

She laughed sourly and nodded. "All death's the same, Sheriff. You lose one, you lose them all. But it'd be nice if you could come over for dinner tonight. I made a fruit tart." 

He glances down at his feet and purses his lips, in disagreement with her. "We'll be there. But losing Stiles would be harder than both losing Melanie."

Mrs. Henderson nods as he speaks, hoping that he would say that. So not all death is the same. But after a husband and two kids, sometimes it just blurred together. "Tell him that, Sheriff. I'll see you," she murmured this last part as she nodded down the porch steps, but Stilinski still heard. She knew he would.   
\---  
The silence continued with the exception of forks scraping against plates.

"I'm sorry Stiles couldn't make it."

Mrs. Henderson shook her head. "Not your fault. That boy hasn't been himself lately."

She had noticed that. Scott would come over less and less and Stiles would be up late into the night more and more. She vaguely wondered at what the connection could be but hadn't thought much on it since the main concern was how often Stiles would come home after dark, weak and tired-looking. It was all during the Sheriff's shift so she had no clue whether or not he knew, but her loyalty was to the son, not the man. 

The Sheriff sighed. "I know... I have no idea what's wrong or how to deal with it all..." He was saved from elaborating by a ring at the doorbell.

Mrs. Henderson stood to go open it, knowing who it would be. Grasping the handle tightly and putting on her fake-angry face, she pulled on the door to find a ragged looking Stiles scratching at his arm. "Hi, Mrs. Henderson... Sorry to be late. I didn't get the message until after... I'm so sorry to hear about Claire." 

She tilted her head, sympathetic and unclear why. "No worries, dear. And thank you. I remember when you and Claire would run around and you'd force the 'big meany teenager' to play tag... Aw, you all were so cute.... I'll miss that." She gestured to the table where the spread was laid out and the Sheriff was...

Standing. Plate in the sink. Coat back on. Ready to leave. "Uh... Sorry to leave so suddenly. I got paged." (Mrs. Henderson resisted an eye roll at this. Even she thought pagers were a little old-fashioned.) "There was some intrusion at the hospital. I'll see you at home, Stiles..." he walked up and pulled his son to his chest. They whispered to each other but Mrs. Henderson couldn't hear so instead went to busying herself with getting Stiles a plate of her tart. He could have dessert first today. No need for forced asparagus consumption.

Dinner had been cleared and it was thirty minutes later when they were sitting together on the porch swing. Mrs. Henderson couldn't stop staring at the skid marks that Claire's car had created and Stiles wouldn't take his eyes off the moon. They probably made an interesting pair, one looking at the ground, the other to the sky.

"If someone told you to cut off a limb to save their life, could you do it?"

Mrs. Henderson gave a small jolt, surprised at the question. "I suppose... But if their quality of life without the limb was worse than a possible death, I'd say no."

"But if the death weren't just _possible._ Like, it was definite. Could you?" Stiles squinted his eyes, looking at his hands as though the answer was written there with him but he just couldn't see it.

"You have to believe there's a miracle to everything, Stiles. Anyway, this is all strangely specific. And I feel we're talking about more than potential amputations." She gave a laugh and he chuckled in response.

"Kind of, maybe... I don't know... Do you think there's anything that there's no miracle for?"

She pulled his hand into hers. "I know there aren't miracles for many things. But if you can pretend there is, just for one moment, that's long enough to give you courage to do what you need. When the realization hits that there's not, at least you've done all you can."

Stiles leaned onto her shoulder. "I believed in the miracles they told me about my mom. That she could be saved."

"They weren't talking about the right ones then, son. It's late now, Stiles. Why don't you come over tomorrow morning and we can talk about this some more?" It was a Saturday and she knew he didn't need any more discussion on the topic. The offer was just a push for him to go fix what he needed to. Mrs. Henderson had no idea what could possibly be on his mind, but he'd been raised strong. He could handle it.  
\----  
It was several weeks later when Mrs. Henderson began thinking deeply about the changes in Stiles's life. 

Or not so deeply as the stranger currently climbing in through the boy's bedroom window was the opposite of stealthy and probably just bruised his shin on that gutter, dangonit. 

She grinned cheekily from her perch on the porch swing when Stiles in a Romeo and Juliet-esque fashion opened his window to call out to the teenager? man? on his roof. She couldn't make out words but saw the frustration in Stiles's face. Apparently this wasn't the first time that this has happened. Hm.

The leather-clad post-puberity figure started gesturing with his hands. When he turned his head slightly her way, she recognized him as the boy from the BOLO posters. Derek Hale. She remembered when his uncle Peter Hale had asked her to slow-dance at the tennis club's reunion competition. Ah, he'd been a spitfire of a little bastard, but still so sweet and charming. 

After hearing about his survival of the Hale fire, she'd gone to visit the hospital and remembered the younger Derek trying to teach Peter sign language. "If he can't hear me, maybe we can tell him things through our hands. They say he can't do it back but these picture ASL books can be learned through right? Right?" He'd looked so desperate at the time and Mrs. Henderson could understand. He was an orphan with only his sister, Laura. Laura who afterwards could be seen drinking with friends in the park and shoplifting from Giant and crying alone in her car at the gas station. She couldn't support Derek and Mrs. Henderson hoped he had turned okay. Even Laura wasn't enough of a bad influence to turn him into a killer like the deputies around town thought.

Lost in thoughts, Mrs. Henderson hadn't been paying much attention to Derek's hand movements until Stiles sat down on the roof near him, listening to what he had to say. 

It was sign language. Stiles wasn't deaf so she could only assume that it was a nervous thing he'd picked up from all those months with Peter. According to the nurses, he would come in and tell stories, both aloud and with his fingers. 

 _I sorry,_ his hands spoke. _I been a jerk and have not thanked properly. Thank you for saving my life. At the pool. And bullet. I owe you. I like to owe you. Let me help. Must be hard..._

Even when Stiles started talking Derek continued, so Mrs. Henderson figured that Derek's mouth had been saying something else entirely. She was glad she remembered the skill from her own deafened grandmother.   The speed with which Derek created each letter was intense which probably meant longer days with Peter than the nurses had implied. 

Once Stiles had climbed back into his room (window slammed, she noted) and Derek had slunk away through his backyard, Mrs. Henderson decided it was time to sleep and pray Derek could learn to get his words out before Stiles gave up. There were only so many roof-conversations people could have before the frustration of young love kicks in.

Not that Mrs. Henderson completely concluded that. Just that even Scott wasn't allowed by Stiles to talk through the window. She remembered when he'd tried one night and the younger Stilinski had shot up his middle finger through the window, then pointed vaguely to the front door. She'd asked Stiles about it and all he could say was "I'm not some Rapunzel waiting for a prince to show up at my quaint two-story castle tower."

But maybe he wouldn't mind being the rescuer to a lost little boy.   
\---  
It was when Derek Hale walked into the Stilinski home through the front door, that she realized the change was about to come.

It was when Derek Hale was surreptitiously kissed goodbye on the sidewalk, that she inwardly cheered. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I... I don't know if I feel too good about this one :\
> 
> If you see any typos or grammatical errors please comment and tell me.


End file.
